Gyllandre

(While this is not Lena, this is a character sketch based on this image:  http://25.media.tumblr.com/1dc297fb8fd9bbbaa0dbbe955a255ee2/tumblr_mh32cvVGI01s49934o1_500.jpg)

Momma!  Momma, where are we going?!

Gyllandre sat up in her bed, panting slightly, eyes darting to the dark corners of her quarters.  The dream was back, and crystal clear.  She was a very young draenei child, her white skin still unmarred, toting a doll her mother had made, tripping after the tall, lanky woman on the tips of her hooves.  Reaching for her.  Catching her tail between her tiny fingers and trying to get the woman's attention.  Her mother smiled serenely down at her daughter and continued her smooth, silent stride while her child ran to keep up.  Her mother was dressed in a flowing tunic over tight cloth leggings, her ashen skin smooth and unbroken where she showed it off along her shoulders and chest.  Her horns were long, gracefully curved, offset by the ridges along her forehead and solemn, peaceful expression that she wore.  Gyllandre gathered the blankets up in her hands as she remembered, her mother's face imprinted forever in her mind.

But then she was gone.  In the dream, a tiny Gyllandre found herself in the middle of the dirt road, grasping for her mother's tail and coming up empty-handed, bewildered and frightened by the darkness closing in on her from the adjacent forests.  Her mother was nowhere to be found, only a wisp of her scent still traceable in the air.

The priest pushed the blankets away and stood, drifting toward the chest at the foot of the bed, where she kept the ancient doll she had carried as a child, pulling it gently from it's place and cradling it to her chest.

Hundreds of years ago, her priestess mother had been taken by the orcs.  Her warrior father had been killed in the initial siege of Shattrath City.  Her mother could probably still be alive.  But in all likelihood, had been either killed or corrupted by the orcs.  Even now, every time Gyllandre visited Shattrath, her true home, she would slowly make her way through the Lower City, eyeing the Broken, wondering if any of them remembered her mother.

Now, she was all but living in the Shrine of Seven Stars, in Pandaria, after years of living on the run with the other draenei.  Upon landing on Azeroth, she readily signed up with the military forces, offering her Light-healing to the troops in need as the race clashed with the Horde and aligned themselves with the Alliance, but more effectively using shadow-magics to bend and twist enemy minds, making them drop their weapons and lose their senses while her allies advanced.  The Pandaren race smiled upon her for her balanced approach to the world, using Light and dark and keeping, even superficially, an even keel.  The trainers praised her for this, and she understood that it was the way to keep the influence of the Sha under control.

She curled up at the foot of the bed, still clutching the fraying doll.  She had been taken in by family friends, raised as one of their own, as was the newer tradition of the draenei.  Her mother had said that before they left the tranquility of Argus, it was rare that a child would grow up without a family.  But as the legion continued to pursue them through the universe, it had become an unfortunate outcome.

When she was small, small enough to still fit in her father's palm, she remembered how her parents would smile over her.  She had been born with such pale, white skin and hair, and her eyes glowed the lightest blue.  She had been Daddy's girl, always charging enthusiastically toward him as he would come trundling home from training or his patrols, jumping into his arms, doll in hand as he scooped her up and nuzzled his nose against her cheek.  Her mother was a priestess, she remembered, always feeling the warmth of the Light that the woman carried within her.  Gyllandre remembered how she smelled, warm and sweet, like the wind and grasses in Nagrand.  They lived on the edge of Shattrath, and Gyllandre was happy to spend time in either setting.

Stroking the doll's head, Gyllandre tucked her legs underneath her bottom, and sighed.  Long ago, the doll had lost the scent of her mother, of her home in Shattrath.  It had been burned as the orcs made their march into the peaceful city.

Momma!  Momma, where are we going?

She could still hear her little-girl voice pleading with her mother, wondering where they were headed.  Gyllandre squinted at the memory, trying to place the scenery.  Terokkar?  Probably.  What happened to her mother?  The dream always stopped just before she found out, leaving her grasping for the memories.

Gyllandre looked up at the knock on her quarter's door.  "Andre?" a muffled voice asked through the wood.  Tachros.  He always called her Andre.  "Andre, it's nearly time for training..."  He always sounded so tentative, as if worried he might upset her.

"I'll be right out, Tachros."  She sighed and replaced the doll in her trunk, locking it and tucking the key into her pocket as she dressed in her battle gear, ready to face a new day.